


Easy Wind and Downy Flake

by littledust



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles doesn't know why Erik keeps coming back for the occasional chess game, but he'll take what he can get. (Post-DOFP.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Wind and Downy Flake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ienablu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/gifts).



> Happy Secret Mutant, dear recipient! ♥ The title is from the ever popular "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. Charles also references "XXII" by William Carlos Williams, otherwise known as the red wheelbarrow poem.

The first fat flakes of the season drift through the door with Erik. He stamps his feet to shake off the snow, and Charles has a fleeting thought: _I used to be able to do that._ But a larger part of his heart rejoices in Erik's arrival, one that he can keep to himself for now, given the hour of the night. Last month's visit overlapped with Angel's arrival at the front gates, and Erik spent a few long hours in quiet conversation with her, the woman who knew Shaw in his last few days. (Just two weeks ago, the newspapers ran a story on more former Nazis turning up dead. Despite Erik's devotion to mutantkind, he hasn't forgotten old habits, or old injustices.)

Then there was the visit right after Armando finally burst back into Charles's consciousness, mutation reasserting itself after a would-be fatal fall off a ladder. (According to Hank, Armando's memories didn't come back until his mutation did because of his mutation's penchant for survival--still safer to be a dormant mutant who thinks he's a human than a mutant who knows himself.) The whole household stayed together for what felt like days, laughing and chatting and catching up. Not even explaining the current state of the X-Men dimmed Charles's high spirits. How often does a beloved comrade return from the dead?

And that's what every homecoming feels like to Charles: a return from the dead. It's probably egocentric to feel as though one's loved ones have passed on when they're merely absent, but Charles is tired of turning to tell Raven or Erik something only to realize that they are hundreds of miles away and he has no idea where. Raven will always need her freedom--she was born for travel, and he can see that only with the perspective of years apart--but he holds out hope for Erik, who once shared a home with him for one brief, bright instant.

He has reason to hope. Erik keeps making monthly visits, staying long enough for a drink, a good game of chess, and a political argument or five. Charles memorizes the contents of each visit to sustain him through to the next one. Each memory is well-loved, thumbed through like a beloved book. His mind is already at work capturing the details of this visit: the chill wind that steals through the hallway, though the door is only open a moment; the smart cut of Erik's dark gray wool coat; the tinge of red at the tip of Erik's nose. Charles tamps down on the foolish smile about to spread over his face, cools it to something more welcoming. Friendly.

"It's gotten quite cold," Charles says, taking refuge in mundanity.

Erik unwinds his scarf and gives an eloquent roll of his eyes. "I noticed."

"Just in case you'd developed a secondary mutation making you immune to the cold."

"It would help."

The house has hushed rather early this particular evening. Angel spends a lot of time on her own, not yet back in the folds of the group's old camaraderie. Hank spends most evenings in his lab. Normally, Alex and Armando and Sean watch television in the sitting room. A brief mental check-in reveals Sean reading comics in his room, having finally picked up on Alex and Armando's none too subtle hints for privacy. No need to check what those two are doing, then. Erik cocks a curious eyebrow as Charles lowers his hand from his temple. "The others have retired early for the evening. I was wondering where they were."

"Well, it's dark outside," Erik says, as though six o'clock at night is a reasonable bedtime for adults in winter.

"Now who's stating the obvious?"

They go into the kitchen. Erik has already gestured several pieces of kitchenware into the air, brows knitting together at the simple fare on offer. "No butter, Charles? I thought you've at least learned you need butter in the house."

"Our grocery run was delayed by the weather, I'm afraid," Charles says. "What were you planning?"

"Chocolate cake," Erik admits. "I had a craving earlier this week, but not a proper kitchen."

"Ah." Charles opens the pantry doors and peers at the shelves he can reach from his wheelchair, hoping that Erik has missed the butter somehow. He hasn't. "My apologies. I like your chocolate cake."

One of the many surprising things about Erik is his serious opinions on kitchen setup and proper kitchenware. _My father was sick. My mother needed help preparing his meals,_ is the most explanation he's ever given for his un-masculine predilection. Charles certainly doesn't mind. Besides, it's not fair that cooking is a womanly pursuit unless you're the master chef at a five-star restaurant. (Raven gave him a pointed telling off when he voiced a dismissive opinion over a decade ago. Her first few weeks of waitressing left her angry at the world for its willingness to take advantage of the disadvantaged. She was always intent on following her own moral compass, even when it didn't align with anyone else's.)

Erik is rummaging through the cabinets, distracted by half-memories of wartime recipes, when there was little food to go around but his mother managed anyway. It's unusual for him to think of his past without incredible pain, and Charles smiles as the afterimages drift through his mind. He shouldn't be snooping like this, but Erik stopped bringing the helmet six months ago. It must indicate something.

"I could make you a martini," Charles offers. "That's almost the same as cake."

Erik rewards the absurdity of the statement with a huff of laughter. It's short, but it eases some of the lines on his face. Charles has them, too: wrinkles from pain, from worry. Too few laughter lines, but the new students will change that. The first few are scheduled to arrive next week: young, bright little things. No doubt they'll be excited by the enormous piles of snow accumulating outside. Charles should look into a weatherproof wheelchair, or perhaps some sort of hovering one. Hank could engineer it.

"No help for it," Erik says, evidently giving up on his cake craving. "Shall we have a game of chess?"

Charles both loves and hates this question: loves, because it's _Erik_ and they're playing together like old times, as though their love for each other burns just as true; hates, because Erik rarely stays beyond the duration of a game when it's just the two of them. "Of course," he says, already wheeling himself down the hall. "If you've recovered from last time's trouncing."

"Last time was a fluke," says Erik. "You plied me with strong liquor after you knew I'd been up all hours."

"I hope you got a good night's sleep, because I'm about to ply you again."

It's like patterns on a chessboard, the way they fall into old, flirtatious habits. Charles makes Erik's martini, then pours himself a brandy. The windows outside his new office reveal the pitch dark of winter. The sun must have set while Erik was lamenting the state of the kitchen. (But really, Charles is much better about feeding people now. Just not better about preparing to hunker down for a winter storm with a school full of people, which he'll have to work on before the four children arrive.)

Their fingers brush when Charles hands Erik his drink. Erik's gaze slides away from Charles and he lifts the glass to his mouth.

There's still something there. Of course there's still something there. But Erik, damn him, refuses to do anything about it, and Charles--Charles just wants him to make the first move. To concede, just this once. Erik, proud and strong and beautiful, should admit that he needs this, needs their foolish chess games and so much more.

"Well then." Charles keeps his voice light, his smile pleasant. "Have you read anything interesting lately?"

They try to talk about safe topics during these games. Because of Erik, Charles is infinitely more well-read in fiction. Because of Charles, Erik has struggled his way through dozens of scientific texts, even those not directly related to mutation. (Erik is a fluent reader in at least four languages, but he claims that scientific jargon is a language unto itself. Charles has gotten good at translating it into plain English, another thing that will come in handy when four children arrive for lessons.)

"There's a new mutant poetry movement," Erik says, to Charles's surprise and delight. "It began in Berlin, so there isn't much in English yet, but it's spreading. It has its roots in the Beat movement and confessional poetry. Very focused on freeing itself from traditional forms, but intent on transcribing the mutant experience. You would like most of their work."

"Well, if it's poetry even _I_ can understand," Charles says with a laugh. Charles, who admits no particular gift for literature, likes his poetry straightforward: the beauty of nature, the sorrow of heartbreak, the inherent nobility of mankind. He still hasn't forgiven Erik for his long explanation of sixteen-word poem about a _wheelbarrow_ , of all things. Why convolute the obvious?

Erik smirks. "You're thinking about the wheelbarrow again."

"Because there was no bloody reason to write a poem about it!"

"Come now." Erik gestures outside, where the snowflakes continue to swirl. "Was there a reason for Robert Frost to write about nature? It will tend to itself without humans to record it. Finish setting up the board and I'll try to translate some of the poetry I heard."

Down come the chess pieces upon their proper squares. Poetical indignation dissipates as Erik slowly works out one of the poems in English, apologizing at every other line for his poor depiction of the artist's original intent. Erik, for all his faults, has strong feelings about artistic integrity, much like he has strong feelings for everything that matters to him. Charles finds it adorable, a word he almost never ascribes to Erik.

As the poem unfolds, Charles just wraps himself in the sound of Erik's voice, in the dawning realization that there's an entire artistic movement out there, one that belongs to _mutants_. "Incredible," he says when Erik finishes, actually choking up. "We have our own poetry now."

Erik reaches out towards Charles's knee, then draws back, thoughts rushing together in one horrified blur. "I'm--yes, it's certainly incredible," he says. "Mutants. In spite of everything, we create."

"Rather than destroy," Charles says, voice soft. Erik pretends not to hear him and makes the first move on the chessboard.

They play. Erik mentions his recent travels in Berlin often enough that Charles suspects the trip was for pleasure rather than--whatever it is that Erik is doing nowadays. He describes the food, the mutant poets he met. He remembers more mutant poetry, though his translations grow increasingly inaccurate after another martini. He looks _happy_ , like he did in those few months they spent together in the sixties, and Charles feels his heart give another painful, hopeful throb.

"I should be going," Erik says when the game finally ends. (Charles drew it out on purpose, making errors calculated to keep Erik in the game for longer.)

Charles glances out the window. The wind picks an appropriate time to shriek through the trees outside. "It really isn't safe to travel at night in this weather. However you got here, you'll be hindered by the dark and all that snow."

"I've--"

"If you're about to tell me you've survived worse, I _know_. That doesn't mean you'll survive it this time." Charles leans forward and just manages an awkward pat on Erik's shoulder. He could have gone for the knee, but no need to remind Erik of his earlier faux pas. A touch of the hand would still be too intimate. "You know that there's plenty of room here."

"Until you fill all the rooms with students." But Erik smiles at that, and Charles has to return it. It was their dream, long ago: a house full of mutants, all of them learning and working alongside each other.

"'And miles to go before I sleep,'" Charles says, because he is not above quoting poetry to make handsome men sleep over.

Erik stays. They get drunk, which is Charles's natural recourse for inclement weather. "Warms you up no matter what," he declares after another brandy. The liquor sloshes in his tumbler thanks to his too-enthusiastic gesture. "Not that it's too cold. I've got blankets. Lots of them."

"And two pairs of socks, I hope."

Somehow that turns into a conversation about childcare. It's Charles's turn to take hold of the conversation as he describes finding his new students, winning over their parents, sharing their excitement that there are people _just like them_. "I have yet to meet another mutant with a magnetic mutation, but there's a little girl who's a telepath," he says. He's probably beaming like an idiot. Well, let him be idiotic over this one. "A telekinetic as well, isn't that marvelous? Quite a lovely girl. I look forward to teaching her."

Erik summons a letter opener from Charles's desk, sending it spinning slowly above his palm. He clenches his fist and the metal contracts into a ball, then releases it and the letter opener resumes its normal shape. "I wonder why there are three known telepaths, but only one of me."

"The world can handle just one Erik Lehnsherr. Goodness knows it's the same for me." Charles tries for a laugh, but it rings false to his own ears. His office swims before him and he closes his eyes. He's had too much to drink, and it's crept upon him unexpected. "If I might--I think it's time for bed."

"Yes." Erik studies him, expression unreadable. His mind feels carefully blank, like a still pond. "Do you need help?"

"I wouldn't mind it."

Erik is only offering because Charles is in a wheelchair, of course. Charles hates being seen as an invalid, hates being treated like a child rather than an autonomous adult, but he's tired, he's drunk, and he misses Erik. If he keeps his eyes shut, he can pretend it's a decade ago, when Erik's reasons for helping him into bed were quite different.

Erik doesn't ask where Charles's new room is, though Charles has never shown him around. He uses his powers to wheel Charles there, but upon arrival, Erik lifts him in his arms to move him into bed. His arms are strong. His hands are warm. It's just as Charles remembers, and he can't help the sigh that escapes his lips as Erik pulls the duvet over Charles.

"Do you ever," Charles says, and then stops. He turns himself over, away from Erik's inquisitive gaze. Now in bed, it's humiliating to have asked for assistance. He's still fully dressed, but the idea of slinking out of bed to change after Erik leaves makes him want to cry.

Then one of those large, warm hands strokes the back of his head, tangling in his hair. "All the time," Erik says, voice gone rough. "Whenever I eat alone. Whenever I go to bed. Whenever I wake up. I can't decide which is worse: the years I went without seeing you at all, or these monthly visits."

Oh. _Oh._ Charles is far too tired and drunk for this conversation, but he forces his eyes open. "I think--not seeing you, for me," he says. "I didn't even know if you were alive. I told myself that I would know if you died, somehow. Even if you were wearing the helmet."

Erik's fingers tighten around his hair, just a little. "I went to Berlin to--to talk with the mutants there. Just to see how they lived. To hear their stories. Every day, I wanted to telephone to invite you along. These poets--they carved themselves a space. I thought about a homeland for mutants. I thought of the school."

_Of the generation of children we let down,_ he doesn't say, but Charles feels it. How many mutant children went unserved while he wallowed in his own self-pity and Erik was off creating terror in the name of mutants? "They'll learn how to live alongside humans," Charles says. Even drunk and desperate for Erik's touch, he wants that clear. "It's not a separatist movement. These children have human parents who love them."

"Then they should have the other perspective, to decide for themselves."

"Erik, are you seeking a job offer via alcohol and head massage?"

"Possibly."

Tears press against Charles's eyelids, hot but welcome. He turns himself over so he can look Erik in the face; that dear, handsome face he carries in his heart no matter where either of them go. "You know that there's always a place for you here."

Erik gives him a look that's wondering and tender, painfully reminiscent of their first few months together. "I will never understand how you can open your doors to anyone, no matter what's done to you."

He clears his throat. "Well. If someone abandons me for ten years, I try to get in a punch in the face first."

Erik hesitates, looking out the window. The wind is quieter now, but the snow is still falling, thick and lovely. "If I'm to stay, I should find my own room."

Of course. The spark is there, but the reality of loving someone broken, someone _crippled_ , is too much to bear. Charles balls the sheet in one hand, squeezing until his knuckles ache. "Unless you care to sleep here," he says, throwing the words out in defiance. Let Erik have to explain why he won't.

But Erik looks more than amazed; he looks stunned. "You would... want it?"

"I've slept alone for ten years. Of course I want you with me." It's too much, hoping for this as well, and Charles squeezes his eyes shut as Erik's mind roils with indecision. Their love never was simple, but now it's infinitely complex, a twisting double helix.

"Okay," Erik says, and Charles allows himself one tear. He's been waiting for so long.

Without undressing, Erik tucks himself into bed with more care than Charles remembers. He is hesitant, pressing the long, lean lines of his body against Charles's. To be fair, Charles is equally hesitant, just daring to rest one hand on Erik's hip. It's the most sexless time they've ever shared a bed, but it's by no means platonic. Charles sinks into Erik's warmth for the first time in years, _years_ , and his eyes fall shut once more.

"I'll get the light," Erik murmurs. Charles makes a sleepy sound of assent, already halfway to dreaming.

When Charles wakes uncharacteristically early, Erik is still there. He frowns even in his sleep, his mind full of uneasy images of being hunted, being imprisoned. Charles wonders how long it will take before those memories fade, allowing Erik to dream ordinary dreams rather than nightmares. He touches Erik's temple and sends his thoughts along a soothing line, until Erik is dreaming of his first chess set, given to him by his father. Charles smiles.

His view from the window is encrusted in elaborate icicles, the screen laced with last night's snowfall. But the storm has passed, and the first light of morning gleams bright and clear.


End file.
